Wrath of the White Tigress

Chapter 18

Dust swirled through fields abandoned to years of drought and a decade of civil war. The setting sun cast forward the shadows of a dozen men sauntering down a narrow but well-used road. Faroul's hand drifted down to the hilt of his broadsword.

Besara clutched to his opposite arm. "Jaska, get behind us and don't stray."

"Shouldn't we run?" young Jaska, only ten years old, asked.

"To where?" his father Faroul replied. "If they're bandits, they'd chase us down, and if they're soldiers, they'd think us guilty of something by running and then do the same. Now, fall in and keep your mouth shut."

Jaska walked within his parents' shadows. With a shaking hand, he clutched the hilt of his hunting knife.

The lean men with desperate, scarred faces wore a motley collection of military uniforms. "Mercenaries at best," Faroul whispered which was little comfort since most mercenaries survived as bandits between jobs. The uniforms several of the men wore belonged to defeated armies.

As they neared, the men spread out and blocked the road. A thick-bearded one in their midst with a nasty scar cutting across his mouth stepped forward.

"Here now, don't be rushing past. We'd hear news of Xampaji."

Faroul replied tersely, "Fallen. We got out just ahead of the carnage."

The bearded man loosed a wicked smile. "Count yourself lucky, eh?"

"I did. If you go north to Alcorol you could probably find work there."

"We've work enough here, I'd say, with all the refugees heading toward Kabulsek."

Faroul loosened his sword and tried to lead his family around the men, but they encircled them.

"Here now, don't be moving on just yet. We'll be taking your money and a turn or two with your wife, first. We're lonely men. You can give us that much, eh?"

Faroul dipped his head as if in defeat then sprang forward. The mercenary leader drew his own weapon too late. The sword skewered him through the heart. Faroul shouldered into one mercenary and slashed another across the eyes. Two more he killed before they wrestled him down.

Besara cut one with a small knife but then he twisted her arm, snapping the elbow joint, and threw her to the ground. Jaska stabbed one on top of his father in the back then retreated as another approached. Jaska yelled and charged him. The bandit dodged and elbowed Jaska in the back of the head. He tried to rise but a boot struck him in the face.

~~~

With a ringing in his skull, Jaska awoke, discarded into a patch of thorny shrubs. He heard mercenaries laughing and joking. He heard his mother's voice, a pitiful moan and wail. He lifted himself enough that he could see the campfire where the mercenaries continued to rape his mother. He fell back and passed out.

He awoke again later and heard one of the bandits say, "Damn, we've killed the bitch."

As they laughed, tears ran down Jaska's cheeks. He vowed to spend his life fighting bandits. He vowed to attain such skill in fighting that ten men could never best him. The bandits left him there, figuring him dead, and Jaska crept away while they slept. He arrived in Kabulsek five days later, half-starved, exhausted, and nearly dead. But his uncle Tursk nursed him back to health.

For three years, Jaska lived with his moderately wealthy uncle. He pressed for fighting lessons, and Tursk hired a retired soldier to instruct him in sword fighting. His uncle proved caring if a little stern and demanding. Jaska believed him to be a good man. Tursk lacked children despite many affairs and saw Jaska as his opportunity for an heir. So Tursk groomed Jaska to take over for him, giving him personal instruction in mercantile matters and paying a private tutor to give Jaska a classical education.